


The Alchemy Plot

by Griselda_Gimpel



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Background Slash, Canon - Manga, Canon Compliant, Food Porn, Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Genocide, Ishbalan Character(s) | Ishvalan Character(s), M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Silly, Social Change is Hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-10-11 20:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20552018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griselda_Gimpel/pseuds/Griselda_Gimpel
Summary: Roy Mustang? Intent on creating a better country, even if it kills him. (Which it just might.)Riza Hawkeye? Mustang's MVP. (But what's new?)Alex Armstrong? Confused. (Not about his sexuality. Just about everything else.)The cook's a cooking, the conspirators are a conspiring, and it's all set to go down (in the most ridiculous manner possible) at the Midsummer Feast.COMPLETE.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In 1933, a group of wealthy business attempted a fascist coup of the United States. They intended to make retired Marine Corps Major General Smedley Butler their leader, but Butler reported them to the authorities. It became known as the Business Plot.
> 
> A similar occurrence, known as the Alchemy Plot, went down in the country of Amestris in 1918.

**1918, Midsummer Eve, 2:00 P.M.**

Chef Shazi I’tidal Armstrong was anxious not to disappoint Führer President Roy Mustang. He’d hired her to prepare the dinner for his big Midsummer Day’s feast, and in addition to her standard professionalism, Shazi understood how important it was that the dinner go right. After all, the future of Amestris depended on it.

Among many of Shazi’s fellow Ishvalans, there was still a great deal of lingering mistrust for the Flame Alchemist. Unlike most of the populous, however, Shazi knew the truth of what had transpired on the Promised Day. Her mother, a flower seller, had long been part of Lady Olivier’s spy network, and so Shazi knew that Mustang was not a Bradley-loyalist, not matter what he had claimed in public. Also, Mustang had once bought out her mother’s entire flower inventory, and that money had allowed Shazi to start her own business. So she had no qualms about helping him build a better country by building the best meal possible.

Shazi intended to visit her mother’s cart tomorrow morning to buy the freshest of roses, but for today, she was getting other ingredients. She examined the price of saffron with dismay. She had hoped that the new trade route with Xing would have dropped the price more, but it still cost its weight in gold. She sighed and paid.

Moving through the marketplace of Central City, she bought garlic and pomegranates and flour and more. The butcher supplied her with a nice selection of chicken, and she hauled the entire selection back to the cold storage at the Presidential Palace, to be cooked tomorrow. It was an awe-inspiring building. She’d peaked into the Green Dining Room, where the Midsummer’s dinner would be held. It was large enough to seat twenty people and had a beautiful view of the moat.

She knew that Roy Mustang had faced many challenges over the past few years, and it had taken a great deal of effort to get here. Fourteen of the most prominent State Alchemists who’d committed war crimes in Ishval would be in attendance, and it was Mustang and Shazi’s fondest hope that the dinner would be the first step in justice being delivered.

**1918, 35 Days Until Midsummer Day, 1:09 P.M.**

Führer President Roy Mustang was already in a bad mood as he headed to his meeting with the Appropriations Subcommittee of Parliament. He knew what they were going to say both because three members of the subcommittee had spent the previous evening with Madam Christmas’ girls and because he’d already done this song and dance several times since assuming office.

It galled him. His first act upon being elected Führer President six months prior had been to restore the powers to Parliament so that they’d truly represent the will of the people. He hadn’t expected them to be so damn obstinate. He sometimes found himself wishing he’d stayed an absolute dictator. He never wished this for long, however. Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye always seemed to know what he was thinking, and she would glare at him until he remembered that even if he was a perfect leader (a dubious claim, honestly) he had to account for his successors in the office. Democracy was preferable, even if it was harder.

He’d spent the morning pouring over the neatly written requests from Major Miles. In the early days, Ishval had needed farming tools, construction material, seeds, and domesticated animals. And also food to feed everyone daily until the farms could produce crop. Three years in, Ishval could feed itself, but it still needed more, and the taxpayers of Amestris footed the bill. (The Ishvalans paid taxes to Amestris, too, of course, but only when they first had an income to tax.)

There simply wasn’t any other way. The surviving Ishvalans had lost most everything but their lives. Self-sufficiency would come, but it would take time. And money. Lots of money. The trade deal with Xing was helping, but that, too, would take time to mature. Until then, it was Mustang’s duty to provide them the necessary funds.

If an Ishvalan individual wanted to, for instance, open a hair salon, they needed construction material and supplies. Since those returning from Exile returned with empty pockets, the request went to Miles. Previously, the request went from Miles to Mustang to Grumman. Then it went back to Mustang with a note that it was too much money. From there, it went back to Grumman again with a great deal of pleading until Grumman agreed. Now it went from Miles to Mustang to Parliament, and they had proved less moved by Mustang’s arguments/begging.

Mustang glanced at the latest request. Miles wanted to establish a university – reestablish a university, actually, as Mustang had melted the previous one during the Extermination Campaign – so that Ishvalans could study for a greater variety of career fields. It was a good idea. A good, expensive idea that would go on the list that the Appropriations Subcommittee of Parliament would have to approve.

He sighed and opened the door to the conference room where they were meeting.

It went as well as he’d expected.

“You can’t have more money for Ishvalan Restoration.”

“We owe it to the Ishvalan people-”

“_You_ owe it to the Ishvalan people. You’re the one who set their families on fire.”

“The Ishvalan people are owed-”

“We can’t afford it. Not without raising taxes.”

“So raise taxes.”

“Do you want to be tarred and feathered?”

“If it means making amends for the past, so be it!”

“Mustang, be reasonable.”

“What about my suggestion that we end hostilities against Creta? That would free up some funds.”

“It’s not a matter of ending hostilities. They’re demanding we cede West City to them in exchange. That is not acceptable. Now, we could win the war easily if you’d just re-authorize the use of State Alchemists-”

The meeting ended there, on account of Roy losing his temper.

**1918, 32 Days Until Midsummer Day, 3:00 P.M.**

Riza Hawkeye had devoted her life to seeing Roy Mustang’s vision to a reality, and boy did he get his money’s worth. Currently, she was taking Member of Parliament Beauregard Brinley wig shopping. She was paying, which was to say that Mustang was paying.

“How about this one, sir?” she asked, holding up a wig in the store. Curly gray wigs were all the rage with Members of Parliament.

“Too long,” Brinley said. “I must say, my dear, it’s not that don’t sympathize with the president’s goals.”

“Thank you, sir,” Riza said. She was doing her best to smooth things over. She’d already given Mustang an earful. Several earfuls, in fact.

“It’s just that he wants the impossible,” Brinley said. “And to be honest, we’re all a bit nervous at how he’s stirring things up with the State Alchemists.”

“The president is himself a State Alchemist,” Riza pointed out.

Brinley wave a dismissive hand. “You know what I mean. Never would have figured the Flame Alchemist to have a heart, but he cares so deeply about the Ishvalan people. Take the Sand Alchemist, on the other hand-”

“What about the Sand Alchemist?” Riza asked. She selected another wig for Brinley to try on.

“Oh, I quite like this one,” Brinley said. “Do you think it’s too flashy? I don’t want to be seen putting on airs.”

“Not at all, sir,” Riza assured him. “Now what were you saying about the Sand Alchemist?”

“Oh, well do you know Clarence Dawson? MoP for the New Optain district?”

“Not well,” Riza said, “but I’m familiar with him. He’s an advocate for conquering Creta, I believe.”

“Uh huh,” Brinley said. “We don’t agree on everything, but he was out with Roger Cantrell – that’s the Sand Alchemist, if you didn’t know – and, well, Cantrell said that if Mustang didn’t back off, Cantrell was going to fix him good.”

Riza frowned. “Did he say anything more specific than that?”

“Not that I heard,” Brinley said. He turned to better see himself in the mirror. “Yes, I think I’ll get this one. Do relay to Mustang that there aren’t any hard feelings, but he really must keep his temper better. That was my favorite wig he ruined!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex and Garfiel will be in the next chapter. I promise!

**1918, Midsummer Day, 8:00 A.M.**

Shazi had bought a dozen roses from her mother, and now she was cooking them. The rosewater was for both the knafeh, a traditional Ishvalan sweet pastry that she was currently working on, and the bastani, which was Ishvalan ice cream. She put the rose petals along with water in the pan and brought it to a boil. Then she turned the heat down and allowed it to simmer.

While she waited, she lifted the barbell she’d brought to the kitchen of the Presidential Palace. People usually doubted that she was strong, as a short, dumpy mother and a short, dumpy father had seen fit to produce a short, dumpy daughter. Still, she was an Armstrong, and she strove to do the name pride. (No one ever doubted she was an Armstrong once she introduced herself. She had the Armstrong curl, and she practically sparkled during bouts of strong emotion.)

Mustang had asked, when he had hired her, how the Armstrong family had come to have an Ishvalan branch. The question didn’t catch her off guard; outsiders always wanted the sordid details. Shazi had politely but curtly informed Mustang that her maternal grandfather was Achille Casimir Armstrong and her maternal grandmother was Fatimah Armstrong (née Karim).

It _had_ been a quite a scandal back in the day. The House of Karim had been a pious, righteous family in Old Ishval, but they had opposed the occupation and subsequent annexation by Amestris. Fatimah had become a maid employed by the Armstrong family. She and Achille had had a tryst, and fallen in love, and when she’d become pregnant, Achille had married her for honor. Shazi did not mention those details to Mustang, however. She was proud of all of her ancestry, and she had been properly brought up. She did not gossip with the nouveau riche.

In the kitchen, the roses had lost all of their color, so Shazi took the pan off of the heat and continued making the knafeh. Previously, she’d had had the prized ewe of Resembool brought to Central City, where she’d milked and then bench-pressed it. From the milk, she’d made cheese and clotted cream to be used in the knafeh. She retrieved those now and continued with the dish.

**1918, 28 Days Until Midsummer Day, 9:33 A.M.**

In the wake of the Promised Day, Mustang had arrested Bradley’s co-conspirators. He hadn’t arrested everyone in government. Mustang had only a handful of subordinates he trusted, and they weren’t enough to run a country. Therefore, he had left in place all the clerks, lesser military officers, judges, and so forth.

“Leave your gloves outside.”

Roy ground his teeth. It was Justice William Stone who had spoken. Roy had managed to secure a meeting with the judge, and things were off to a bad start. Slipping off his gloves, he handed them to Riza.

“I’ll wait outside,” Riza said softly and left the two men alone.

“I know why you’re here,” Justice Stone said. “My answer is still a firm no.”

“I would think a justice would be more interested in there being justice,” Roy accused.

“It’s a matter of the law,” Justice Stone said. “The State Alchemists – yourself included, I might add – committed no crime.”

“The State Alchemists – myself included – committed genocide. How is that not a crime?”

“It was lawfully ordered by Führer President King Bradley. If you wish to discuss right and wrong, I will give you a different answer, but as a matter of law, that is the way things stand.”

“How could the orders have been lawful?” Roy demanded. “Bradley was an unelected dictator.”

“Nevertheless, he was the head of state at the time his order of genocide was given.”

“Well, their actions are illegal now,” Roy argued. “Doesn’t that count for something?”

“We can’t try people for crimes retroactively,” Justice Stone said gravely. “It sets a dangerous precedent.”

“We should have disobeyed orders,” Roy insisted. “We’re guilty for not having done so.”

“You make a laudable argument, Mr. Führer President, but Amestris simply doesn’t have the legal basis for such a position.”

“Would you be saying that if you weren’t appointed by Bradley?”

“If I hadn’t been appointed by King Bradley,” Justice Stone answered smoothly, “I wouldn’t be making an argument, period. Really, Mr. Führer President, I must say I am surprised as the venom you’re showing. I was under the impression that you were a Bradley-loyalist.”

“Thank you for your time,” Roy said. Turning on his heel, he left the justice’s chambers and reclaimed his gloves from Riza.

**1918, 27 Days Until Midsummer Day, 12:06 P.M.**

Riza always knew when Mustang was stressed, and he had been exceptionally stressed since Grumman’s retirement. Part of it was that neither of them had expected Grumman to retire so soon. In fact, Grumman also hadn’t expected to retire so soon. Then he’d up and thrown his back out one evening while – he claimed - helping one of Madam Christmas’ girls study for her college exams.

Grumman had appointed Mustang his successor. Mustang had immediately insisted there be democratic elections, both for himself and the Parliament. It had been a whirlwind after that, but Mustang had prevailed. They had thought, with democracy achieved and the powers of Parliament restored, furthering their shared goals would be easier, if not easy. That hadn’t been the case.

She and Mustang were outside of the gun range. They had just finished practicing. While Mustang had blown off quite a bit of literal steam incinerating barrels full of water, it was clear that he still had a great deal of metaphorical steam to do away with.

“Lieutenant, what am I missing?” he asked.

“You have no control over the whims of other men.”

Mustang kicked a rock on the side of the road and watched it skip along the path. “We can’t afford better reconstruction of Ishval because we’re at war with Creta. We can’t stop being at war with Creta because we’ve been at war with Creta. Now that Parliament has to worry about being reelected, they worry only about being reelected. The men who carried out Bradley’s immoral orders can’t be tried by the judges that Bradley appointed. It’s so damn cyclical!”

“Like alchemy?” Riza asked.

“Like alchemy,” Mustang agreed, smiling.

“You just need to find the right thread to pull.”

“So what am I missing?”

“Well, what is it that you need?”

“Money.”

“And what is it that you’re trying to do?”

“Rebuild a land destroyed by the men who profited handsomely off of its destruction,” Mustang said bitterly. His eyes glazed over as he realized what he had said. Riza smiled.

“I think you found your source of money, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our world, "I was just following orders" was ruled as an invalid legal defense for committing heinous actions, but Fullmetal Alchemist takes place in a different world. As Amestris is run by Father and doesn't appear to have much in the way of international relations, I thought that they might have different legal precedents.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always remember that if you ever find yourself in the underworld, don't eat any of the seeds of a pomegranate or else you'll have to stay in the underworld that many months out of the year.

**1918, Midsummer Day, 3:00 P.M.**

The Holy Scriptures of Ishvala state that evil entered the world when the first humans took a bite of a pomegranate. Shazi – being a chef – could attest that the pomegranate was, without a doubt, the evilest fruit in all of existence. The first time she had attempted to cook with a pomegranate, she had wondered why Ishvala had bothered to create the damned things. The first time she had tasted a pomegranate, she had found the answer. Pomegranates were delicious, and they made you work for their reward.

Shazi had an entire bucket of pomegranates beside her now in the kitchen of the Presidential Palace, and she had already been at work for an hour, carefully separating the tasteless pulp from the delicious juice. On the counter beside her was a small graveyard of broken knifes that had selflessly given their existence to her task.

Once she was done, she would boil it into syrup, add a dash of salt and lime, and allow it to cool. Along with the appropriate amounts of pepper, it would be used to season chicken to make a dish called fesenjan. That would be the main course at the dinner.

Mustang had specifically requested that Shazi prepare traditional Ishvalan dishes for the dinner. He thought that the State Alchemists having a taste of the culture they had sought to destroy might help lead them to repentance. Mustang had made it clear that there _would_ be repentance, whether they liked it or not, but his plan would go more smoothly if they sincerely experienced a change of heart. 

As Shazi finished with the last pomegranate and began on the syrup, she decided there was no point standing around doing nothing, so she started to do jumping jacks while she waited for the juice to boil. After all, jumping jacks were a great way to work out the entire body.

**1918, 14 Days Until Midsummer Day, 8:00 P.M.**

When Alex finished climbing the stairs to the room above the tavern, he found eleven men and one woman waiting for him. They were all State Alchemists from the looks of their pocket watches. A few of them he knew. He recognized Roger Cantrell, the Sand Alchemist. He’d buried whole towns and the people within them during the Extermination Campaign.

Next to the Sand Alchemist on one side was Milford Ott. He’d been a soldier even before getting his state certification, and his expertise on the battlefield was why Bradley had dubbed him the Bloody Alchemist. On the other side of the Sand Alchemist was the Big Alchemist, whose given name was Norton Snell. He specialized in alchemy on a large scale. After the Promised Day, he’d sworn up and down that he’d been ignorant of the nation-wide transmutation circle. The others Alex did not know, and introductions were not made. It was the Sand Alchemist who did most of the talking.

“Welcome, Lord Armstrong,” the Sand Alchemist said.

“Hello!”

“Other than the Führer himself, we and you compose all of the State Alchemists of Amestris who are still alive and active on their certification.”

“Oh, we are, aren’t we?”

“Most of us, until recently, were deployed on the southern or western front lines. You know what military life is like, of course.”

Alex nodded. “They mostly don’t use the lash anymore, but there’s still rum-”

“Yes, yes,” the Sand Alchemist interrupted. Alex nodded again. He hadn’t known what the conversation was about at first, but he did now. He took the initiative.

“Mustang isn’t here.”

“He is not.”

Alex considered his words before speaking, something he rarely did. In this case, it was because there were some secrets that affected more than just his own person. “I like Mustang a great deal,” he began.

“As do we all,” the Sand Alchemist assured him.

“But he represents the law, and sometimes the law is wrong.”

The Sand Alchemist beamed at him. “I see that we’re on the same page. Take Mustang’s plans to shut down the State Alchemist program.”

“That is one example,” Alex agreed. He and Mustang had politely disagreed on the matter in the past. Unlike Mustang, Alex thought that the State Alchemist program could be redeemed.

“Which brings us to us,” the Sand Alchemist said.

Alex looked around the room. “What, all of you? Really?”

“Every last one of us,” the Sand Alchemist assured him.

“I am among friends then,” Alex said. “There is a matter before us where what is right is not the same as what is the law.”

The Sand Alchemist broadened his smile. “We in this room want to change that.”

The Big Alchemist interjected, “Of course, some things are not safe to say out loud.” He seemed to be speaking to Alex, but his eyes were on the Sand Alchemist. The Sand Alchemist scowled and then continued.

“Naturally, we must show discretion. Now, the Armstrong family is an old, reputable one. Can we count you among our number?”

“Absolutely!”

**1918, 14 Days Until Midsummer Day, 10:00 P.M.**

Alex hummed like a songbird when he left the meeting. (Humming like a songbird was a skill passed down in the Armstrong family for generations.) Something that he had never thought possible was now within his grasp.

He smiled as he reached his apartment. He did not live alone, but he could not advertise that fact. It had been Winry who had introduced him to Garfiel. Despite still only being an apprentice, Winry had fully taken over the Rush Valley branch of Atelier Garfiel, while Garfiel had opened a new branch in Central City.

“Honey, I’m home!” Alex called as he entered.

“Superb!” Garfiel answered. “If you get the potatoes peeled, I’ll prep the vegetables. Then we can work the meat together. How was your day?”

“Fantastic!” Alex boomed. “I made some new friends today, and we have exciting plans!”

“Tell me about his as we cook,” Garfiel said. He gave Alex a quick kiss and then led him into the kitchen.

Alex grabbed a potato, tossed it into the air, and began slashing at it with the peeler. When he caught it again, the skin had been smoothly removed. He smiled at his work and grabbed the next one.

“I met with a group of twelve,” Alex explained.

“Men?” Garfiel asked.

“One woman,” Alex said. “The rest were men.”

“You should introduce her to your sister. Then one with the sword, I mean.”

“I don’t think Olivier would be interested in a State Alchemist.”

“Any of the men good looking?” Garfiel asked.

“I didn’t notice,” Alex said stiffly. “The Armstrong family prides itself on its fidelity.”

Garfiel gave him a sly smile. “Doesn’t the Armstrong family also pride itself on its eyesight?”

“There was one near the back who was rather cute,” Alex admitted, his face breaking into a smile, “but I didn’t know him.” He mock pouted. “You shouldn’t tease me.”

Garfiel bopped Alex on the nose with the tip of his finger. “I like teasing you. Okay, okay, tell me what the meeting was about.”

“We’ve going to advocate for Mustang to decriminalize homosexuality!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started writing this chapter, all twelve of the conspirators had names, monikers, and brief backstories. That proved to be an overload of information, however, so I cut it down to just three named OCs.


	4. Chapter 4

**1918, Midsummer Day, 4:30 P.M.**

Shazi surveyed the finished dishes with pride. Having a worked up a sweat doing pushups, she’d taken a quick shower and then finished the last dessert. Now everything was ready and needed only stay the appropriate temperature until the food was served in an hour and a half. Flames kept at a low heat would keep the hot dishes hot without causing them to burn or overcook. Ice would keep the cold dishes cold.

There were three appetizers. The first of these was cranberry labneh dip. She carefully arranged a selection of crackers around the platter. There was also kibbeh, made of lamb meat and shaped into balls. Lastly there was labneh stuffed figs with honey and pistachios.

There was also a fattoush for the salad. The main course was the fesenjan, made with chicken and the pomegranate syrup. For dessert, there was knafeh and bastani. The former was made of cheese and dough and syrup. The latter was an ice cream made with rosewater and saffron.

Shazi checked the Green Dining Room for the umpteenth time. Yes, there were three food tables for the appetizers, main course, and dessert to be displayed until it was time to serve them. Yes, there were five tables and fifteen chairs for the diners. Yes, the seating arrangement had been worked out.

She returned to the kitchen and smiled with pride at her work. There was power in cooking. The right dish could turn a heart or end a feud. With the right ingredients, you could stop an army in its tracks. Surely, with all of the delights she’d created, the dinner would be a smashing success.

**1918, 7 Days Until Midsummer Day, 3:55 P.M.**

Roy Mustang put on his brightest smile as he knocked on the Bloody Alchemist’s door, invitation in hand. Riza Hawkeye had made the invitation. Riza Hawkeye was also somewhere out of sight, staring down the barrel of her rifle at the Bloody Alchemist’s front door. Roy was confident that he could handle himself, but Riza had told him smartly that they couldn’t be too careful.

The door opened, and the Bloody Alchemist’s surprised face peered out through the crack. He shut it again, undid the chain, slipped out, and shut it behind him. There was a smile on his face and suspicion in his eyes.

“Mr. Führer President! Do what do I owe the honor?”

“I’d like to invite you to dinner.”

“I was under the impression that you and Lieutenant Hawkeye were, um, delicately entangled.”

Roy made a face. “That would be an inappropriate use of the office.”

“Never stopped Grumman.”

“I’m not Grumman.”

“Well,” said the Bloody Alchemist, “I’m afraid that I’m going to have to decline your invitation. I do not have, as they say, a more extensive taste.”

“I can vouch for the food,” Roy assured him. “Trust me, it will be an absolutely mouthful.”

The Bloody Alchemist glanced downward at below Roy’s midsection. “Uh huh. You are a persistent lover.”

“What?”

“I’m not interested,” the Bloody Alchemist said firmly, “In you.”

“Oh.” Realization dawned on Roy. “No, no, you misunderstand. I’m inviting all of the State Alchemists to the dinner.”

“What? All of them?” The Bloody Alchemist gave a low whistle. “I really misjudged you.”

“To dinner to discuss politics,” Roy added hastily. “And that’s not a euphemism!” He shoved the invitation into the Bloody Alchemist’s hand and hurried to the next address.

**1918, 3 Days Until Midsummer Day, 11:00 P.M.**

The thirteen State Alchemists met again in the room above the tavern. Each of them held Mustang’s invitation in their hand, although Alex had folded his into an origami crane. As the Sand Alchemist spoke, Alex pulled a tab on the crane that made its wings flap. He beamed at his companions, who stared blankly at him in return. He set the crane down on the table. Some people didn’t appreciate talent, he supposed.

“As I was saying,” the Sand Alchemist continued, “it appears that we’ve all be invited to this Midsummer Dinner. Now we must choose what to do about it.”

“It’s a trap,” the Bloody Alchemist stated.

Alex shook his head. “I know we haven’t persuaded Mustang yet, but I don’t think he’d have us all arrested. He’s a good man, really.” He thought of Garfiel. Surely if Mustang just saw how much Alex and Garfiel loved each other, he’d change the law.

“Nevertheless,” the Sand Alchemist said, “he considers us to be criminals.”

Tears formed on the edge of Alex’s eyes. “We’ll make him see reason there. I know we can!”

“Your passion is appreciated,” the Sand Alchemist said. “Still, it likely is a trap. But – I believe it is a trap we can us to our advantage.”

“What if,” the Bloody Alchemist mused.

“Continue,” said the Sand Alchemist.

“What if we put something special in his food at the dinner?”

Alex’s eyes sparkled. “I’ll do it!” He smiled as he thought of the words he’d grown up hearing. He repeated them out loud to the other State Alchemists. “With the right ingredients, you can stop an army in its tracks.” With a good enough meal, surely Mustang’s mind could be changed.

The Sand Alchemist frowned. “I hadn’t gotten to this yet, but we’d hoped that you’d be Führer President after Mustang.”

Alex was momentarily speechless. “Really?” he croaked when he finally found his words.

“Absolutely,” the Sand Alchemist assured him, beaming. “You are not only a State Alchemist but the scion of a proud, noble family. You would make a fine leader of this country.” Around the room, the other State Alchemists nodded.

“I’m flattered,” Alex said. “And I accept.” Happy tears streamed down his face.

“It gladdens my heart to hear that,” the Sand Alchemist said. “So we must consider; would it be good for you to have, how shall we say, a brief career in cooking if you wish to ascend the highest office in the land?”

Alex’s brows furrowed as he considered it. “Well, I suppose it’s not something I’d want to advertise. I would want to emphasize my military service instead. And it’s not like I would be cooking a lot. I mean, other than the cooking that I do at home.”

The Sand Alchemist cocked his head. “I think you lost us there at the end.”

“Oh,” Alex said. “I should think it should be fine.”

“Well, make sure you’re discrete,” the Big Alchemist told him.

“I’m always discrete!” Alex boomed.


	5. Chapter 5

**1918, Midsummer Day, 5:50 P.M.**

Shazi did not have a seat at any of the tables in the Green Dining Room, but even if she had, she would have had too many knots in her stomach to be able to eat. Food was her pride and joy, and nothing brought her more delight than seeing her dishes well enjoyed. (This remained true even if the ones doing the enjoying were a much of vile war criminals.)

It was not her job to bring the dishes from the kitchen to the Green Dining Room, so she hovered uselessly about, sometimes double checking that she hadn’t forgotten to cook something in the kitchen and sometimes getting in the way of the serving staff at the edges of the Green Dining Room.

The guests were about to be seated. The appetizers and desserts had already been set out on display in the Green Dining Room, and the main course would follow them shortly. Shazi beamed at them with pride and then fretted back to the kitchen. There she encountered Alex Armstrong.

“Cousin?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be in the dining room?”

Alex put a finger to his lips. “Which serving of the chicken is Mustang’s?” he asked.

Shazi pointed it out. Before she could say anything further, Alex selected a container off of the spice shelf and sprinkled some on Mustang’s portion. She pursed her lips at him. Her food was her art; she did not need a co-creator.

“What did you add?” she demanded.

Alex showed her.

“Well, it’s not like I have time to make another portion,” she muttered. “Now, shoo, shoo. You’re not supposed to be here.”

**1918, Midsummer Day, 6:20 P.M.**

The appetizers had been eaten, and now the State Alchemists and Riza Hawkeye were picking at the fesenjan. Shazi had discretely ducked behind the heavy drapery that framed the large window that overlooked the moat. She could tell that the diners were uncertain about the dish, but when they took a bite, they seemed to enjoy it.

Mustang stood up and tapped his glass with his spoon. “Can I have everyone’s attention please?” Conversation in the room died down, and all eyes turned to the Flame Alchemist. “I’ve gathered you here today because there are crimes that must be paid for.”

“This isn’t a courtroom,” the Sand Alchemist said.

“It is not,” Mustang agreed in a pleasant tone. “And I hope that we can come to an accord.”

“State your piece,” the Sand Alchemist said.

“Very well. All of us profited mightily from our times as State Alchemists, but now it is time to pay for what we did. I mean that literally. Ishval needs to be rebuilt, so all of you are going to generously donate to its reconstruction.”

“You’re joking,” said the Bloody Alchemist.

“I am not,” Mustang said. “In return, you will be re-authorized for combat, with restrictions.”

“And what happens if we don’t do this?” the Big Alchemist asked.

“I’m going to set you all on fire,” Mustang said flatly. From her hiding place, Shazi gasped.

There was silence, and then the Sand Alchemist spoke. “Even you couldn’t beat that rap.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Mustang agreed, reverting to his previous pleasant tone.

The Sand Alchemist smiled in return. “It is good that you do not fear death, my friend, for are already dead. Armstrong poisoned your chicken. I hope that you enjoyed it; that was your last meal.” They would only have to hold Mustang off until the poison took effect. He cast a glance at Riza Hawkeye. He knew her to be a good shot, but she would be greatly outnumbered.

There was a scraping sound as Alex forced his chair back and stood up. “I did no such thing!” he bellowed.

“What?” the Sand Alchemist asked. “You said you were going to add something extra to his dish?”

“I did!” Alex protested, “Paprika!”

“Can confirm,” Shazi squeaked from her hiding place.

“Paprika?” the Sand Alchemist echoed. “Why would you add paprika?”

“I thought it would perfect the taste,” Alex sniffed. “Not to insult my cousin’s cooking, of course, but I though a bit of paprika would help bring Mustang around to our cause. As for that, Mustang, I don’t know what the Sand Alchemist is on about, but the reason we agreed to come to this dinner tonight is so that we could implore you to decriminalize homosexuality!”

“What,” the Sand Alchemist and the Flame Alchemist both said at the same time.

“I love men!” Alex exclaimed. “I will not live a lie any longer!”

“You…you…fool!” the Sand Alchemist sputtered. “You absolute dunce!”

There wasn’t any sand in the Green Dining Room, so the Sand Alchemist threw the first thing within his reach at Alex. It happened to be a thigh from the fesenjan.

**1918, Midsummer Day, 6:31 P.M.**

It was absolute mayhem after that. The Bloody Alchemist grabbed a kibbeh that he hadn’t eaten and threw it at Mustang. In retaliation, Mustang scooped up a handful of knafeh and chucked it at the Bloody Alchemist. It missed and hit one of the other alchemists instead. Bowls full of bastani flew through the air, and pomegranate juice stained clothing where fesenjan hit its mark. A bowl of fattoush was dumped on Alex’s head, and he responded by spinning a platter of cranberry labneh dip at the retreating offender.

Within a minute, all of Shazi’s hard work was ruined. Tears welled up in her eyes, only to be washed away by rage. She forgot that she was facing fourteen State Alchemists and the best shot in the Amestrian military. She forgot that she was only trained in cookery and had no weapon on her but her fists. She forgot everything but her fury.

“How dare you?” she whispered, leaving her hiding place behind the drapery. “HOW DARE YOU?”

She swung a punch at the first alchemist within reach, catching him in the stomach and causing him to crumple. She bodily took hold of the next one and threw her into the ceiling, where she crashed through to the crawlspace before the next floor. Finding a chair within reach, she swung it at the third State Alchemist. The fourth State Alchemist tried to engage her in combat. She swooped down, took hold of his leg, and swung him into the Bloody Alchemist and the Big Alchemist, who were both coming toward her. The seventh State Alchemist she stabbed, using a fork that had been left on the table. He screamed and fell back, trying to staunch the sudden flow of blood. The eighth tried to run. He tripped and shattered his wrist in the fall. The ninth, disoriented from the platter that had hit him in the head, had sat back down in his chair. Shazi grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the table. The tenth snuck up behind her then, but she caught him with her hands and threw him over her head, where he slammed into the wall on the far side of the room. She stamped on the foot of the eleventh.

“Don’t try it, Ishvalan,” spat the Sand Alchemist. He was standing in front of the window at this point. Shazi gave an anguished cry of rage and charged him. The glass shattered as he went through it, and there was a splash when he landed in the moat below.

“Now, Cousin,” Alex said. “I’m really sorry.”

“Since you apologized,” Shazi said softly. She turned her attention to Roy Mustang, but he had jumped into Riza Hawkeye’s arms, and she had drawn a gun.

“Please desist,” Hawkeye said.

Shazi was already coming to her senses then. She looked around the room at the damage that had been wrought.

“Oh dear,” she said. “I think I should go have a lie down.”

“Mercy,” begged the State Alchemist closest to Shazi.

Mustang took charge of the situation then, from his place in Hawkeye’s arms. “If you all agree to pay for the reconstruction of Ishval and not press charge for tonight’s violence, you may have mercy.”

There were murmurs of agreement from about the room (and one from the crawlspace in the ceiling, plus one from outside the window, as the Sand Alchemist had crawled out of the moat and had been about to reenter the room). So it was agreed and so it was done.

Oh, and Mustang also decriminalized homosexuality, so all was well that ended well.


End file.
